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RED POPPIES IN THE WHEAT 






Red Poppies in the Wheat 



BY 

JOHN RICHARD MORELAND 



NEW YORK 
JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1921 



^*i'^<2k 






Copyright, 1921. 
JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 



OCT 24 m\ 

§)C(.A627376 



TO MY MOTHER 



NOTE 

Following is a list of poems included in this collection 
which have been published in Magazines: 

"Red Poppies in the Wheat," "Tears," "Gifts," "The 
Kiss," "What Would You Give?" and "Bereavement" in 
The Minaret; "Recompense," in The Reviewer; "The 
Living Lie," in The Madrigal; "Love at Eventide," in 
McCall's; "The Sea," in Shadowland; "The Intruder," in 
The Cavalier; "Lowlands," in The American Poetry 
Magazine; "The Hope Eternal," "Bon Voyage," in The 
Quiver (London, England) ; "Love's Sacrament," in 
Columbia Record; "To a Japanese Print," in Motion 
Picture Classic; "Eventide," in Man: the Wonderful; 
"I Love You So," in Choice Bits; "A Grave," "Admira- 
tion," "Growth," "Genre," "Life's Day," "Love's Telling," 
"The Faithful Messenger," "Autumn," "Loss" and "How 
Vast is Heaven?" in The Lyric; "Faith," in The Chris- 
tian Herald. 



CONTENTS 



RED POPPIES IN THE WHEAT 15 

THE COWARD DAWN 16 

love's sacrament IT 

GENRE 18 

"l DID NOT HEED THAT SPRING WAS HERE" 19 

THE KISS 20 

THE LITTLE SIN 21 

TREASURE 22 

TO A JAPANESE PRINT 23 

I LOVE YOU SO 24 

THE MIRACLE 25 

TEARS 26 

THE LITTLE ROOM 27 

THE SEA 28 

GIFTS 29 

THE LITTLE HOUSE 30 

THE UNRETURNING 31 

WHITE HORSES OF THE SEA 32 

A VILLANEL 33 

THE WIND 34 

DAY 35 

KINSHIP 36 

WEALTH 37 

LOST 38 

HOW VAST IS HEAVEN ? 39 

A WATER COLOR 40 

THE SCALES OF LOVE 41 

THE NOMAD STRAIN 42 

EVENTIDE 43 

RECOMPENSE 44 



CONTENTS 

ADailRATION 45 

to oxe away 46 

lilactime 47 

"if you would be my friend" 48 

lovehght 49 

AUTUMN 50 

life's day 51 

the intruder 52 

the red woman 53 

"as one grown tired of living" 54 

knowledge 55 

THE POET 56 

WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE ? . 57 

KINGS 58 

THE LENGTH OF A NIGHT 59 

ZION STILL IS AVELL BELOVED 60 

LOWLANDS 61 

NIGHTFALL 62 

EASTER 63 

LOSS 64 

THE RECORD OF THE AGES 65 

love's TELLING , 66 

THE FAITHFUL MESSENGER 67 

TO A CAGED LINNET 68 

THE GUEST DENIED 70 

COLUMBINE 72 

BROADWAY IN A FOG 74 

THE TEST 75 

PRISONERS 76 

THE PIPES O' PAN 77 

TIME 78 

THE LIVING LIE 79 

INTENTIONS 80 



CONTENTS 

"the priest is come and the tapers burn" 81 

the veiled angel 82 

never rest street 83 

inconsistency 84 

FAITH 85 

HER DWELLING PLACE 86 

BEREAVEMENT 88 

A GRAVE 89 

SAFE IS MY TREASURE 90 

THE DEAD 91 

BON VOYAGE 92 

PREVISION 93 

THE INN OF CONTENT 94 

THE HOPE ETERNAL 96 

BEYOND THE LAND OF SLEEP AND DEATH 96 

FINIS 97 



RED POPPIES IN THE WHEAT 



RED POPPIES IN THE WHEAT 

Life is red poppies in the wheat, 

Love be not late! 
Keen is time's sickle; years are fleet; 
Life is red poppies in the wheat, 
Filled with brave dreams and crimson sweet 

But bound by fate ! 
Life is red poppies in the wheat, 

Love be not late ! 



15 



THE COWARD DAWN 

I hate the dawn; I hate the cold gray dawn; 
It creeps so hungrily from the vast unknown. 
Visible silence like a ghastly moan, 
Waking the trembling wood and pallid lawn, 
Prowling, it seeks fair food to feed upon, 
Till the royal sun above the orient zone 
Leaps to arouse and kiss and claim his own: 
Then on a sudden, coward-like is gone! 

For one I love, with hair of dull red gold. 

With sad, sweet eyes, and pale and lorely face, 

Like a Madonna, gentle, with a trace 

Of suffering . . . though her heart was high and bold. 

Dawn wrapped within his chill gray mantle's fold 

And kissed and killed her in his cold embrace. 



16 



LOVE'S SACRAMENT 

I knew a priest in other lands 

Who daily culled an opening bud, 

And crushed the stem within his hands 

Until his palms were stained with blood. 

I questioned once this mystery. 

And why his palms were daily red? 

"Love wore a crown of thorns for me ; 
Thus I remember, son!" he said. 

Today my heart can understand 

That loving act of long ago; 
The rosC; the thorn, the bleeding hand 

Have all been mine, that I might know ! 



17 



GENRE 



An old fashioned shop 

With dingy entrance 

And tinkling bell; 

A sad; sweet-faced woman 

Dressed in blacky behind the counter 

Waiting on a little lad 

With a large copper cent 

Wanting a ginger cake. 

The shop is lost among skyscrapers 

The woman a drift of dust 

And forgotten; 

The lad an old man, 

Yet memory clings 

With joy to the picture 

And the taste of the cake 

Seems as if just eaten. 



18 



DID NOT HEED THAT SPRING WAS HERE. 

I did not heed that spring was here; 

The city streets were chill and gray, 
When lo, I passed a window where 

White dogwood blooms were on display. 

I paused ... I could not quickly pass 
The vision in the window small . . . 

I felt warm winds that stirred the grass, 
I heard the singing sand-dunes call! 



19 



THE KISS 

For love or lust, for good or ill, 
Behold the kiss is potent still! 

O mother-lips that fashion it . . . 
Earth's purest kiss and exquisite. 

While dearest dreams the heart may know 
Love's kiss doth hold when moons hang low. 

Yet oft upon the mouth of trust 
The traitor's fetid lips are thrust. 

And hardened harlots hating truth 
Smile and befoul the lips of youth. 

How Hell rejoiced 'mid flame and drouth^ 
When Rome kissed Egypt's wine-dark mouth. 

But ah, that kiss divinely sweet 
That Mary pressed on Jesus' feet. 

Time grants no surer noon than this: 
Death's poppy-scented mouth to kiss. 

And treasured more than gems or gold 
That last, long kiss on lips clay-cold. 

For love or lust, for good or ill. 
Behold the kiss is potent still! 



20 



THE LITTLE SIN 



It was such a little, little sin, 

And such a great big day, 
That I thought the hours would swallow it, 

Or the wind blow it away. 

But the moments passed so swiftly, 
And the wind died out somehow. 

And the sin that was once a weakling 
Is a hungry giant now. 



21 



TREASURE 



These are the treasures that his heart holds dear: 
A christening cup marked, "To my little son," 
A bit of purple quartz from Blomedon, 
A china rabbit with a broken ear, 
A small, dull knife, that cost him many a tear! 
All da}^ he holds them in his close embrace. 
By night his pillow is their resting place 
And with the morn he laughs to find them near. 

childishness to cherish trifles so? . . . 
And yet, O lad of mine, could you but know 

1 too have treasures that I daily touch. 
Frail tokens but to me they mean so much: 
A few sea shells, a boat, a pail once red . . . 
These were his brother's toys . . . and he is dead ! 



22 



TO A JAPANESE PRINT 

Above a calm and argent sea 

That shivers with the chill of dawn, 

Two gulls with love for company 
Speed on and on. 

Small silhouettes against the light — 
Two tiny boats with full-set sails — 

That fear no anguish of the night, 
No salt sea gales. 

Two little huts, a humble sight, 

Rude vine-clad homes of honest moil. 

Where love abides by day and night. 
Through play and toil. 

Low scraggy trees of scented pine, 

And towering high a mountain rears 

Its snow-crowned head; the pilgrim's shrine 
Of love and tears! 

O swift sea gulls! O fragile boats! 

O humble homes! O fragrant trees! 
Why do you hold my heart like notes 

That grieve and please? 



23 



I LOVE YOU SO 

I love you so . . . 

That of your many gifts but few I crave;, 
What none may vahie, that give me to save^ 
When others are your guests, I'll be your slave; 

I love you so 

That as the changing days shall swell to years, 

I ask not for your dreams but for your fears; 

Not for your kiss, your love . . . but for your tears! 

When joy burns low 

And grief shall kiss your lips so drawn and white, 

And age comes on and twilight turns to night. 

My plea is this: that I may have the right 

To turn love's darkness into love's delight . . . 

I love you so! 



24 



THE MIRACLE 

Of human love God took a bit 

And fashioned it 

A little life and exquisite. 

You are dawn, 

You are joy, 
You are hope 

Little boy. 

(Your eyes — 

Dark pools of sweet surprise; 

Your mouth — 

Red berries from the south!) 

You are spring, 

You are fears, 
You are song. 

You are tears. 

(Your nose — 

A tiny, pale pink rose; 

Your hair — 

Soft silk and darkly fair.) 

You are pain. 

You are joy. 
You are love . . . 

Little boy. 

O fragrant flame that God hath lit 
Within my heart to quicken it. 
You make life sweet and exquisite! 
25 



TEARS 

At twilight when I put his toys away 

My little lad's lip quivers and a tear 

Gems each blue eye; his heart is rent with fear 

Lest when the amber glory of the day 

Illume his snow-white bed and call, "Come play," 

He may not find those things his heart holds dear: 

An old tin top; a train with broken gear, 

A headless horse that once was dashing gay. 

You smile at childish tears? Lo! age hath toys 
To which it fondly clings till death's chill hand 
Puts them aside, and all remembered joys 
Are wells of grief too deep to understand; 
Yet as with morn my lad finds fears were vain. 
So death shall give to age its toys again. 



26 



THE LITTLE ROOM 

O little room, in your simplicity, 

The dearest spot in all the world to me, 

A shrine of joy and keenest ecstasy. 

A whitewashed wall, 

Two windows small, 

A little bed . . . and that is all ! 
And yet within your quiet dark 
My heart has thrilled like some glad lark 

At morn dew-kissed. 

For I have tryst 
With love in golden lands of Arcady. 



2T 



THE SEA 

By day the sea 

Is a blue flower 

With curling white petals^, 

And the great ships, 

Speeding before the wind, 

White moths. 

By night the sea 

Is a lover's garden 

Fragrant with silver memories 

And the twinkling lights 

From passing ships, 

Gold fireflies. 



28 



GIFTS 

time when your swift hours of toil are spun, 
My homing heart turns to its dwelling-place, 
And as the gate clicks, in the window's space 
Is framed my glad and golden hearted one 
Who peers into the night so chill and dun. 

1 turn the key and swift with childish grace, 
He runs to me lifting a joy-lit face 

And cries, "What have you brought your little son?" 

O sweet expectancy, O dear surprise! 
Within the House of Years I watch and wait: 
Night's golden gondola skims western skies, 
And soon a hand will fumble at Life's gate. 
And I, impatient, call with eager breath, 
"Come in," and then . . . "What have you brought me. 
Death?" 



29 



THE LITTLE HOUSE 

House of one room that doth no joy possess, 
Musty and dark and damp and windowless, 
And yet the anteroom to loveliness . . . 

Truth is a guest within its sombre gloom, 
And in the confines of this silent room 
Is the great secret of decay and bloom; 
How sod and sun and rain and dew and snows 
Commingle in the alchemy that goes 
Into the rapturous raiment of the rose. 

House of one room that doth no joy possess, 
Musty and damp and dark and windowless, 
And yet the anteroom of loveliness . . . 
Where the soul's glory shall outshine the rose. 



30 



THE UNRETURNING 

Her j^ellow bird still wakes me with its singing; 
Her bookS;, dust covered, miss her daily touch; 
Morn after morn the sun, his gold fire flinging, 
Makes bright each treasured thing she loved so much. 
But where is she? Upon a dawn-kissed hill 
Within the sombre silence of the loam, 
She who loved birds and books and flowers and home. 
Does she remember still .f* 

Her room reveals the deftness of her finger 
In curtained casement and in pictured wall. 
While in a nook where she so loved to linger, 
Are half made garments . . . delicate and small. 

I wear mirth's mask to hide my heart's keen sadness. 
Lest I should weary men with grief too deep 
For one who was the fount of all my gladness, 
For one so sweet and young, who fell asleep. 
O dark-eyed sleeper on the windblown hill, 
Waiting within the silence of the loam. 
You who loved life and laughter, song and home . . . 
How can vou lie so still? 



31 



WHITE HORSES OF THE SEA 



A mauve-green sky 

Dotted with white gulls 

Flying before a wind arrow-keen; 

An emerald race course 

With hurdles three feet high 

Over which racing towards the beach 

In magnificent splendor 

Come the white horses of the sea! 



32 



A VILLANEL 



O Columbine, the lilacs blow, 

The nomad spring is come again . . . 

Where is Pierrot? Where is Pierrot? 

The wild plum blossoms fall like snow, 
And trembling in April rain, 
O Columbine, the lilacs blow. 

A voice is still she used to know. 

Her heart is wrung with doubt and pain 

Wliere is Pierrot? Wliere is Pierrot? 

The moon lights up with amber glow 
A rustic bench where all in vain, 
O Columbine, the lilacs blow. 

And she who loved and trusted so 
Echoes each night the sad refrain. 
Where is Pierrot? Where is Pierrot? 

Dust are her dreams of long ago. 
Of love and spring and Castled Spain; 
O Columbine, the lilacs blow . . . 
Where is Pierrot? Where is Pierrot? 



3a 



THE WIND 

I heard the wind rise in the night 
And call my name in mocking tone, 

It shook the house with savage might, 
And chilled me to the bone. 

It screamed above the roofs of tin, 

And laughed down lane and alley-way 

It cried old sadness long locked in 

My heart from the white eye of day. 

It tapped my window pane and said 

In hissing voice, "I know ... I know . . 

The secrets that you thought long dead. 
Those poignant things of fire and snow! 

Thank God! the gossips slumbered on 
Nor heard that taunting voice so shrill 

That told my sorrow to the dawn . . . 
The sorrow I had kept so still! 



34 



DAY 



Morning is a blue-eyed child 
Restless and full of play; 
Seeking lovely things 
To delight the eye^, 
To thrill the fingers^ 
To please the taste, 
And dancing, dancing 
In the warm sunlight. 

Noon is a golden maiden 
Wide-eyed, expectant, 
And dazzling in beauty; 
Searching for fairy dreams . . . 
Longing for love, happiness, 
And amber kisses. 

Evening is a gray-clad woman 

Bent and sad . . . 

The ashes of a fire 

That burned too fiercely . . . 

The exquisite silence 

After song . . . 

The drooping petals of a flower 

Blown awav at moontime. 



35 



KINSHIP 



I never see a new or broken toy 
In sunlit window or in corner dim, 
But in the home of love's forgotten joy 
I picture him. 

I never pass a smiling lad and small 
In dingy doorway or in market-place, 
But in the dusk of memory's silent hall, 
I see his face. 

I never smell a rose or clover bloom, 
Or violet . . . these made his heart rejoice . . . 
But down love's corridor of scented gloom 
I hear his voice. 

O lad of mine ... a blossom in the sun. 
Too frail to stand life's winds so fierce and free 
Through you my love seeks out each little one 
And every father is akin to me! 



36 



WEALTH 

O heart be thankful! 

For no mighty king 

Has half the wealth that yon possess, 

His gold grows burdensome 

And dark with years; 

His silver tarnishes, 

While yours is ever new; 

His gems grow dull with dust, 

And often thieves 

Despoil his treasure house. 

O heart look up! 

The turquoise of the sky 

And all its clouds of pearl 

Are yours and free. 

Lift up your face 

And feel the cooling drops 

Of opal rain, 

Open your hands and take the sun's pure gold. 

Or hoard the shining silver of the moon . . . 

They have no price. 

See yonder violet — 

The sapphire's light is not so sweet, 

While diamonds of the dawn gem every flower, 

And ruby roses flame on stems of jade 

Set round with leaves of darkest emerald. 

O heart be thankful 
And possess your own! 



37 



LOST 

Like some lad wandering in the market-place, 
Who seeks in vain a friendly face, 

I saw the moon 

At noon, 
So wan and white, 

Lost in the brightness of the sky's blue light. 
Seeking some friendly face she knew by night. 
But in the rush of toil forgotten quite. 



HOW VAST IS HEAVEN? 

How vast is Heaven? — Lo^ it will fit 
In any space you give to it . . . 
So broad — it takes in all things true; 
So narrow — it can hold but you. 



A WATER COLOR 

The wind is scattering the pearls of rain, 
Pearls great and small, pallid and twilight-toned; 
The greedy fingers of the sleepy town 
Are hoarding them in pools and rivulets 
That gleam and glisten with a silvery light. 
The arc-light, like a moon half hid by mists 
Rising above dark willows on the Seine, 
Edges with living light the dripping trees 
And shadows them upon the cool wet street 
In gray-green colors and so exquisite 
That they would charm the heart of dear Corot. 



40 



THE SCALES OF LOVE 

You weighed my love anrl thongbt if-, light, 
Wlule yours was like a strong oak tree^ 
But who can judge the ocean's might 
From sailing on an inland sea? 

Gray years have left my love the same, — 
Its rugged strength I would not boast — 
While yours, — but should I chide or blame,- 
A castaway on some dark coast. 



41 



THE NOMAD STRAIN 

Spring lured me to the woods today 

And O what beauty met my eyeS ; 

A shallow vale before me lay 

Like some enchanted Paradise; 

In lacy fern my feet sank deep, 

And all around pale violets grew, 

While dragonflies were still asleep 
On tender leaves of emerald hue. 

Small marigolds gleamed in the grass. 

The daisies nodded in the breeze; 
A little lake that shone like glass 

Was hiding under myrtle trees; 
While in a dogwood, white and sweet, 

A mocking bird, in motley dress, 
Sang to his mate in her retreat. 

His song of love and tenderness. 

I watched pale lily buds unfold, 

I gathered many a flower and leaf; 
I saw a squirrel stir the mould 

To hide his dinner . . . cunning thief, 
O'erhead the warm, gold sunlight shone. 

Noon touched the woods with soft caress, 
And I alone, seemed not alone 

With so much life and loveliness! 



42 



EVENTIDE 

Deep in the woods one day in spring 
I passed a hut that seemed so poor, 
With just a little garden round, 
And lilacs blooming by the door. 

Upon the step a woman sat, 
A little babe upon her knee, 
Around her feet there played a child 
Whose age, I think, was nearly three. 

And as I looked, adown the path, 
In homespun clad there came a man, 
And as he neared the open door 
The little child to meet him ran. 

The man bent down and took the child 
(Whose prattle sounded, O so sweet), 
And bore it to the hut and put 
It down beside the woman's feet. 

And bending low he kissed her brow, 
Lifted the babe from her embrace, — 
He kissed its tiny dimpled cheek, 
And joy shone in the woman's face. 

And as I looked there came to me 
A peace that made the hut seem fair; 
Because I knew 'twas Arcady; 
Because I knew that love lived there! 



43 



RECOMPENSE 



All that we say returns, 

The bitter word or sweet; 

Days, weeks or years may intervene. 

But soon or late 

The spoken word and speaker meet. 

All that we do returns. 

The deed that's true or base 

We may forget, but all unseen 

And parallel 

The doer and the deed keep pace. 



44 



ADMIRATION 

A crystal pool beneath a sky 

As blue as Italian waters^ 

A young, green oak 

Bending so low 

That its leaves 

Kiss the cool mirror 

In which are reflected 

The strength and beauty 

Of the strong tree . . . 

A forest Narcissus 

In love with his own image. 



45 



TO ONE AWAY 

Her feet that daily trod rough paths and steep 
Are treading now green ways and kind as sleep; 
Her hands that never shirked an humble task, 
Are filled with all the joyous toil they ask. 

Her eyes that saw the fair in everything 
Now see the glorious miracle of spring. 
Her gentle voice that charmed the heart of me 
Is now a lyric fount of melody. 

Her glad;, glad heart . . . once bound by time and tide 
Has burst its bounds, is free and satisfied. 
And her pure soul ... a chalice white with truth 
O'erflows with wonderment and joy and youth . . . 
For this I know! God is a Kingly Host 
Giving His guest those things she loved the most! 



46 



LILACTIME 



'Tis time the lilacs were in bloom 

But spring is late! 

O house of life^ and chill with gloom, 

'Tis time the lilacs were in bloom 

To lure love with their old perfume 

Close to my gate. 

'Tis time the lilacs were in bloom 

But spring is late! 



47 



IF YOU WOULD BE MY FRIEND" 



If you would be my friend as I am yours, 
I beg you give no costly gifts to me 
Of gold or gems or jade or ivory . . . 
For love that needs such gifts never endures. 
What would I have? In yellow sun or rain 
To hear your voice in all its tenderness; 
And in my hours of gloom or deep distress 
Your strong hand-clasp to help me bear the pain. 
And when you talk I want no smooth veneer 
To hide the honest things you have to say; 
Tell me the truth and should it cost a tear, 
I can be sad awhile. Some other day 
You'll free my heart of all its ache and sting 
And in my snowbound soul will come the spring! 



48 



LOVE LIGHT 



Some flowers there are that love the sun 

And open only to his kiss; 
While others sleep till day is done, 

They think the moon more lovely is, 
Your smile is sunshine warm and bright, 

Your frown is moonlight chill and white, 
But could I bask in either one, 

My heart's red petals folded tight 

Would burst with such a dear delight 
'Twould shame the flowers of moon or sun. 



49 



AUTUMN 

Autumn^, autumn^ yon thought not I was spying 
When you laid your hand caressingly on summer's 

sleeping head, 
But I saw her start and shiver, 
And I saw her wake and quiver, 
For your touch was chill as snowtime 
Though your mouth was flaming red. 

Autumn, autumn, you did not think I saw you 

When you crept among the grasses and swaj^ed them 

with your breath, 
When the wildflowers bent to greet you, 
And the trees reached out to meet you. 
For they thought your touch was beauty, 
But they found your kiss was death! 

Autumn, autumn, I hate you and love you. 

For with all your flame and passion you are nothing 

but a thief. 
Though you thrill like spring's soft magic. 
You're a lover old and tragic. 
And your gorgeous gold and crimson 
But a cover for love's grief. 



50 



LIFE'S DAY 



Darkness, 
Then dawn 
And dew. 

Morning, 
Glad skies 
Of blue 

Noonday, 
A flower 
Joy-bright. 

Sunset . . . 
Dead leaves 
And night. 



51 



THE INTRUDER 



You may clothe your form in a monk's soft gown, 
You may hide yourself in a lonely cell; 
You may let sweet service your memory drown 
And try to forget where love's people dwell. 

You may penance your body with thorn and knout, 
You may bar your doors with bolts strong and new. 
But there's one intruder you can't keep out! 
Love comes when he wills and smiles with you. 



52 



THE RED WOMAN 

O woman with the coral lips, O woman with the eyes 

of jade, 
Come not between my soul and God! 
You are like lightning beautiful and round my heart 

your flame has played, 
O woman with the coral lips, O woman with the eyes 

of jade, 
You are the candle, I the moth and of your power I 

am afraid 
When moonlight silvers sea and sod. 

O woman with the coral lips, O woman with the eyes 

of jade. 
Come not between my soul and God ! 



53 



"AS ONE GROWN TIRED OF LIVING' 

As one grown tired of living, 

(A coward in the strife^) 

Waits not Imperial Summons, 

But dares to take his life; 

So in the sky's dark distance 

Sometime through fiery pride, 

A star comes falling . . . falling . . . 

A Heavenly suicide! 



54 



KNOWLEDGE 

Lies 

Are black vultures, 

Carrion fed. 

That foul 

The air. 

Truths, 

Milk-white doves 
Serene and sweet 
And oh, 
So fair. 



55 



THE POET 



I am a poet. 

By day I sing of trees in flower^ 

Emerald gardens red and amber tinted 

And dreamy runnels 

Beneath blue skies^ or skies 

Snow clouded. 

My home is a tenement^ 
My garden the asphalt street, 
My skies factory smoked, 
My runnels dark water 
In the city's gutters. 

I am a poet. 

By night I sing of the yellow stars, 

The cold white wonder of the moon, 

The bliss of love 

And of lovers. 

Tall buildings shut me from the skies. 
In my window the stars never twinkle, 
Nor the moon shows her silver face, 
And love is a stranger 
Who has never thought me worthy 
Of notice. 



poet! 



56 



WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE? 



If you should meet upon the street 
Love like a beggar, asking alms, 

And he should stand with pleading hand 

What would you put within his palms? 

The widow's mite? The samite white? 

The yellow rose from other lands? 
Or hurry by with downcast eye? 

Or stoop and kiss love's open hands? 



57 



KINGS 



''They perish all hut He remains." 

Omar Khayyam. 

Who hath not marvelled at the might of Kings 
When voyaging down the river of dead years? 
What deeds of death to still an hour of fears, 
What waste of wealth to gild a moth's frail wings ? 
A Caesar to the wind his banner flings, 
An Alexander with his bloody spears, 
A Herod heedless of his people's tears ! 
And Rome is flames while Nero laughs and sings: 

Ye gilded actors of a drama old 
Your names are by-words in Love's temple now, 
Your pomp and glory but a winding sheet; 
Then Christ came scorning regal robes and gold, 
To wear warm blood-drops on a willing brow. 
And lo! in love, we stoop and kiss His feet. 



58 



THE LENGTH OF A NIGHT 

With anguished heart one crouched beside 
A form, sheet-covered, cold and numb; 
Night seemed a never ebbing tide, 
The white, white day so slow to come. 

In love's embrace one found but this: 
That night was done before he slept. 
He cursed . . . and cursing lost a kiss . . 
The dawn that through the window crept. 



59 



ZION STILL IS WELL BELOVED 

I dreamed an angel came with shining face, 

Waked me^, and whispered, "This great truth record; 

Once more will I show mercy, saith the Lord, 

Unto My people, My beloved race: 

Say to the people of all tongues and caste. 

The day prophetic dawns ! The gentile's reign is past. 

"Long have my people felt My anger burn. 

Long have their backs been bowed 'neath lash and load: 

Long have they trod a weary, painful road. 

But now to them I will My love return 

And bring them with rejoicing home at last!" 

The fig-tree buds ! The gentile's reign is past ! 

"Their bones have called Me from the ice and sleet; 
Their tears have flowed to Me a mighty flood ; 
Their pains have pierced Me when their backs ran blood. 
Their prayers have reached Me from the iron's white 

heat; 
No more will they be alien and outcast. 
The day prophetic dawns ! The gentile's reign is past ! 

"Once more will I the gentile's conquest stem 
And Israel be led by My strong hand 
Back to that long forsaken, promised land. 
Where they will build a New Jerusalem ! 
The crescent in the east has waned at last! 
The fig-tree buds! The gentile's reign is past!" 



60 



LOWLANDS 

I never loved high hills whose rough peaks reach 
Up through the clouds and strive to touch the sky; 
Give me low sand dunes where the seabirds cry — 
The lyric sound of surf upon the beach. 

And when soft twilight spills its shadows gray, 
Hills cannot bring such soothing peace to me 
As ships returning home from over sea, — 
And little boats safe anchored in the bay. 



61 



NIGHTFALL 

The western sky is like a disk of beaten copper clouded 
with dark smoke of steamers going northward. 

The surface of the Chesapeake is broken by ripples 
like silver fish pursued by an enemy. 

Chill is the breeze from the east, sharp with the tang 
of salt and keen with the odor of pine trees. 

In the tall buildings lights appear like glad faces 
screened behind dark veils and latticework. 

And as the brass tone of the sky dies into lead, the 
yellow eyes of the harbour gleam in the darkness. 

Beneath the bright lights of the curving and narrow 
streets there is a confusion of cars, wagons and 
people. 

But in the suburbs . . . gold lamps are placed in small 
windows where love with smiling face is waiting 
the evening tryst. 



62 



EASTER 

Morning 

And a city street 

Yellow with laughing sunshine; 

A crepe-clad woman 

Old and feeble 

Tottering beneath the weight 

Of dazzling white lilies. 

Life and death . . . 

Dust and Immortality! 



LOSS 

Well I remember with what keen delight 
We watched spring's magic wake the sleeping earth, 
And clothe bare boughs with blossoms pink and white, 
Till mating birds grew mad with lyric mirth. 

'Tis April once again and potent still 
The charra of spring and all it brings to me, 
Yet joy is pain, for on a pine-dark hill 
She bides with death in his chill hostelry. 



64 



THE RECORD OF THE AGES 

The fingers of the Recording Angel 

Are weary with writing; 

The golden pages of the account book 

Are heavy with names; 

The song of the angels is so faint 

That above it can be heard 

The wail of the dying. 

Suddenly the music stops and God's voice 

Breaks the heavy silence. 

"Read me, O angel of the ceaseless writing, 

The number of souls slain by hate, 

And the number of souls saved by love." 

But the angel does not answer; 
He is behind with his posting. 



65 



LOVE'S TELLING 

Love is a tale so sweet, so brief, 

But Oh! the telling! 
Sappho found it a tardy thief . . . 
Love is a tale so sweet, so brief, 
Dante dreamed it of all things chief, 

A quest impelling. 
Love is a tale so sweet, so brief, 

But Oh! the telling! 



66 



THE FAITHFUL MESSENGER 

How do I know the spring is come? 
Still snowbound is my heart and numb. 
I heard one crying in the street, 
"Lilacs, white lilacs, who will buy ?" 
And lo! my city room grew sweet 
With fragrant memories. Life's dark sky 
Grew blue . . . and O, I saw again . . . 
Youth . . . love and lilacs bowed with rain! 



67 



TO A CAGED LINNET 

He's a saucy little fellow 
In a coat of black and yellow, 
And his eyes are like the seeds 
Of the rape on which he feeds. 
He has slender clay-hued feet. 
And the seven notes are sweet 
Which he puts into the song 
That he warbles all day long. 

Bound by bars of shining brass, 
Does he miss the dewy grass? 
Does he miss the rain-pools chill 
And the trees that crowd the hill.^ 
And the flowers sweet and wise, 
Does he miss their soft round eyes? 
And the sandy paths that go 
In and out where trees bend low. 
Does he miss their winding way 
Where the little insects play? 
And the winds that shake the trees, 
Does he long to fly with these? 



Little singing captive tame, 
Spring and winter are the same 
To you in your house of brass, 
Where your days so quickly pass. 
Summer brings no awful heat, 
Winter flings no frozen sleet 
In your even tempered zone 
Where you live your life alone, 
Whistling, warbling all day long 
With your seven notes of song. 
Singing all your life away 
Just to make your jailer gay. 



69 



THE GUEST DENIED 

At starlight to my dwelling-place, 

A stranger came to sup with me ; 
His voice was sweet but passion-free, 

And sad his face. 

And when the evening's meal was done, 
We sought the fire's genial blaze, 
But all his words were chill as days 

That know no sun. 

He lingered till the crescent moon 

Had climbed the sombre stairs of night. 
And then with quivering lips and white, 

He begged this boon: 

That through life's sunsets touched with fire, 
Or silvery mist, or twilight dim, 
I would yield up my heart to him 

For his desire. 

But I had dreamed of love as this; — 

A radiant prince, all jewel-clad. 

Whose sensuous mouth would make me glad 
To crave a kiss ! 

My will to swoon beneath his sway. 
My heart to leap at his command 
And wait the kneading of his hand 

Like plastic clay. 



70 



But this plain stranger, chill and white, 

Who seemed my dearest dreams to flout, 
I hated; so I bade him out 

Into the night. 

O anguish of the bitter years, 

O little ghosts of things too sweet. 
Today I yearn to kiss love's feet 

And dry his tears. 

For lo, my heart with grief is numb. 
Each pale regret is keen with pain; 
And where is Love? I call in vain^ 

He will not come! 



71 



COLUMBINE 

A toothless woman, bent and grim, 
Whose face is seamed with line on line^ 
Dreams in her chimney corner dim 
Of days when she was Colmnbine. 

Her once dark hair is thin and gray, 
And pale her lips that were as wine, 
Her sunken cheeks are as the clay — 
Old age, thy name is Columbine. 

Her limbs have lost their symmetry, 
Her eyes are dull like sleepy kine. 
Her palsied hands rest on her knee — 
Who now remembers Columbine? 

How fleet the years when life is young 
And man and maid find life divine! 
How slow, when life's glad songs are sung; 
Dream on . . . dream on^ O Columbine! 

Where is Pierrot — whose kiss was sweet, 
Whose mouth was as the cypress-vine; 
Who nightly danced with willing feet. 
And arms entwining Columbine? 



72 



O youth, who look with pitying eye 
On age, the lees of life's bright wine, 
You, too, must feel the years drift by; 
You, too, grow old like Columbine. 

A toothless woman, bent and grim. 
Whose face is seamed with line on line. 
Dreams in her chimney corner dim 
Of days when she was Columbine. 



73 



BROADWAY IN A FOG 

Grotesque shadows of vehicles and people 

Gliding over smooth asphalt, 

Gra}^ mists blotting out the towering buildings, 

While the yellow lights 

In the high windows 

Are like fireflies 

Caught in a net of silver. 



74 



THE TEST 

How easy 'tis to love at night 
Beneath a big moon round and white, 
Or walking on some flowery lea, 
Or sending dreamships out to sea, 
Or in some garden quaint and old, 
To know the joy red lips may hold, 
Or near her window, like Pierrot, 
Waiting the rose her hands may throw, 

But in the petty toil of day 
How chill is love and far away. 



75 



PRISONERS 

My heart is like a captive bird, 
A prisoner with untried wing, 
Too sad to sing. 

My heart is a forgotten rose, 

Choked by the weeds and lost in gloom, 
Too sick to bloom. 

Come, love, and set the captive free 

And bid hira mate and soar and sing; 
And kiss the drooping rose and bring 
Joy's blossoming. 



76 



THE PIPES O' PAN 

I strayed into the woods today^ 

My heart throbbed with the joy of springy, 
My voice was singing all the way 

Like happy bird on joyous wing: 
Warm yellow sunshine filled the air^ 

Upon my face I felt the tan, 
And I forgot all toil and care . . . 

For lo! I heard the Pipes o' Pan! 

I listened with my heart athrill 

To some faint sound from place remote, 
That came to me across the hill, 

From laughing lips and swelling throat; 
Its melody was like the dawn . . . 

Star-gemmed and new . . . towards it I ran 
Lured by its sweetness on and on . . . 

The silvery sounding Pipes o' Pan! 

They say Pan*s dead — (wise men who know) — 

And I have never seen his face 
Though I have sought where lilies blow 

And fern and sedges interlace; 
But in the woods, 'neath elm and yew. 

There dwell strange things unknown to man — 
Let others doubt — this thing is true! 

That I have heard the Pipes o' Pan. 



77 



TIME 

Time is a golden drink within a cup 

Hallowed by God and called Eternity; 

The years are thirsty mouths that crave and sup 

Despair and faith and mirth and misery. 

Is the drink endless? Or on some dread day 
Shall fair lips parch and wither wanting wine? 
God filled the cup and only He can say, 
"Drink deep, O years, nor guess at my design!" 



78 



THE LIVING LIE 

I dreamed last night an angel touched my face, 

Bent low and questioned. "Is your life like this: 

Daily to hold love in your strong embrace 

And feel upon your mouth the burning kiss, 

The keenest and the sweetest joy there is?" 

I answered. "Nay, I have not known such bliss!' 

I woke: close by my side and peacefully 
Slumbered that one whose kiss is dear delight, 
Wliose love has crowned my life with ecstasy 
And led my feet in narrow paths and white. 
How could I answer if at morning bright 
Death came and said, "You lied to me last night!' 



79 



INTENTIONS 

So many things I meant to say 

To please^ to praise^ to make you glad ; 

Such splendid chances have I had 

And yet I let them slip away; 

And now in shame I bow my head 

For moments lost and words unsaid. 

So many deeds I planned to do 

To ease the road of your behest, 

But while I loitered taking rest 

Another hand has aided you; 

And now my heart is pricked with pain 

For castles reared and wrecked in vain. 

So many songs I meant to sing 

To spur you on to greater heights, 

To cheer you on those lonely nights 

When faith is weak and hope takes wing; 

But while I tarried with my song 

Your struggling soul grew true and strong. 

Without my words you reached your goal, 
Without my help you won your fight ; 
Without my song you chose the right 
And love and beauty clothe your soul. 
Today my path is rough and long . . . 
I need your words, your deeds, your song! 



80 



THE PRIEST IS COME AND THE TAPERS 
BURN" 

The white moth is wooing his chosen mate, 
The birds have a nest in the weed and fern, 
But, love, you knock at my heart too late. 
The priest is come and the tapers burn. 

(Where were you, love, when the morning 

was heavy with mating? 
And in the noontime before life's 

dear dreams had departed? 
Why did you tarry when twilight 

was poignant with waiting? 
Lo ! now it is midnight . . . pale sleeptime . . . 

and I am chill hearted!) 

The moonflower bends with the moth's frail weight. 
The birds are asleep in the grass and fern. 
But, love, you knock at my heart too late, 
The priest is come and the tapers burn ! 



81 



THE VEILED ANGEL 

Death is no monster seeking prey 
Of old and young and rich and poor; 
He but removes life's mask of clay 
And from time's prison tears the door. 

His touch is neither harsh nor cold^ 
His soothing voice is strong with truth; 
He speaks — and j^outh stops growing old. 
And age regains its vanished youth. 



NEVER REST STREET 



In a little white house in Never-Rest Street, 
A woman was busy from morning till night 

With washing and scrubbing. 

And cleaning and rubbing, 
To sweep out the dust; to keep out the dust; 

For her all life's reaping 

Was dusting and keeping 
The little white house in Never-Rest Street. 

In a little gray house in Ever-Rest Street 
A woman is quiet from darkness till day; 

No washing nor scrubbing. 

Nor brushing nor rubbing — 
Now done with the dust? No, one with the dust, 

For chill lips have found her. 

And strong arms have bound her. 
In the little gray house in Ever-Rest Street! 



83 



INCONSISTENCY 



Not dead;, you say? 

Your friend who walking fast 

Earth's farthest boundary forever past 

While you yet stay 

This side the portal dim^ 

Though needing him. 

Then why your tears, and why your sad pale face? 

And sombre dress of crepe and lace? 

If he be living in some lovely place 

Within whose zone 

Parting is all unknown, 

Where age is changed to youth, 

And doubt is lost in truth, 

And love and joy walk hand in hand with spring. 

Beneath a nightless sky forever blue, — 

Why not wear garments of a happy hue? 

Why not let pealing bell 

The good news tell? 

Why not be glad and clap your hands and sing? 



84 



FAITH 



In every leaf that crowns the plain^ 
In every violet 'neath the hill;, 
In every yellow daffodil . . . 

I see the risen Lord again ! 

In each arbutus flower I see 

A faith that lived through frost and snow, 
And in the birds that northward go 

A guiding hand's revealed to me. 

Lo ! winter from some dark abyss 

Came forth to kill all growing things; 
'Twas vain^ spring rose on emerald wings. 

Moth-like, from her dead chrysalis. 

Each germ within the tiny seed 

Throws off the husk that to it clings, 
And towards the sun it upward brings 

New life to blossom to its need. 

Ye hearts that mourn rise up and sing ! 

Death hath no power to hold its prey, 
The grave is only where we lay 

The soul, for its Eternal Spring ! 

In every leaf that crowns the plain. 

In every violet 'neath the hill. 

In every yellow daffodil . . . 
I see the risen Lord again ! 



85 



HER DWELLING PLACE 

Above her grave the morning sun 

Piles high his bars of yellow gold; 

Around her grave the squirrels run 
To bury acorns in the mould; 

But she who sleeps there knows she this. 

Whose lips were red and sweet to kiss? 

(Ere death found out our try sting place 

And took her in his chill embrace!) 

I know not . . . but this thing I know: 
That she who loved me long ago 

And now sleeps on a wind-kissed hill, 

She died loving me . . . and so . . . 

She loves me still. 

Above her grave the faint perfume 
Is wafted by the evening breeze; 

Night's golden lamps the dusk illume 

And glimmer through the willow trees; 

But she who sleeps there knows she this, 

Whose dear, sweet face I daily miss? 

(Whom death sought out in life's yoimg day 

And bore her from my love away!) 

I know not . . , but this thing I know: 
That she who loved in sun or snow 

And now sleeps on a lonely hill, 

She died loving me . . . and so . . . 

She loves me still. 



O little turf-bound house of rest 

On which the summer sun shines bright, 
Or winter's snow, at God's behest, 

Wraps you in raiment pure and white; 
O little sleeper know you this 
That grief my sole companion is? 
(For though I guard your dwelling-place 
Death folds you in his chill embrace!) 

Dear laughing lass . . . this thing I know: 

God gave you to me long ago 
And though death sought our love to kill, 

You died loving me . . . and so . . . 
You love me still. 



87 



BEREAVEMENT 



O mocking bird, put by your song, 

For she who thought it sweet is fled; 

And though your notes be pure and strong, 
Can lyric beauty charm the dead? 

O rose, put by your colors bright. 

For lo! her eyes are sealed with clay; 

Go robe yourself in raiment white. 
Or let your petals drop away. 

O sky, forget your azure hue. 

Let each white cloud be black as night. 
So dark no star may glimmer through. 

Nor sun give warmth nor moon give light ! 

O time, be swift to burn away 

Life's oil of tears that tells of pain. 
And bring that glad eternal day 

When I shall know her lips again! 



88 



A GRAVE 



A grave seems only six feet deep 

And three feet wide^ 
Viewed with the calculating eye 

Of one outside. 

But when fast bound in the chill loam 

For that strange sleep. 
Who knows how wide its realm may be.^ 

Its depths, how deep? 



SAFE IS MY TREASURE 

Only one treasure have I ; others hold 
Great chests or caskets full of priceless things, 
Rare uncut gems, and many antique rings 
Of strange design ; and precious heirlooms old, 
Or quaint hand-carven silver, coins of gold, 
Or pearls or amber beads on slender strings, 
But ah, my heart to no such treasure clings. 
Mine being more that these a thousandfold. 

The treasure passing dear to me is this : 
Her dying lips gave unto mine a kiss, 
A kiss that I shall treasure and shall keep 
Until I lay me down for my last sleep. 
Until in lands beyond the morning skies 
I give it back to her in Paradise. 



90 



THE DEAD 



Today he knows a secret 
And will not tell it to me. 

Since childhood have we been friends, 

We have swapped marbles and tops, 

Sailed the same kite, 

Eaten from the same apple, 

Shared our early joys and told our little sorrows. 

Between us never has there been a dark day 

Nor a mysterious pleasure untold; 

Through youth and manhood 

Have we been as David and Jonathan. 

We have dreamed together, 

Toiled, laughed and loved . . . 

Yet today he knows a secret 
And will not tell it to me. 



91 



BON VOYAGE 

I heard the noisy cable slip, 

I felt the pressure of warm hands ; 
Glad voices cried, "A happy trip," 

As I set out for other lands. 
Nor tears, nor sadness marred the day 
That bore me from my friends away. 

Some day I'll make another trip 

The longest voyage ever made; 

Death's hand will let the cable slip 

And guide me through the sea of shade. 

Weep not ye friends that round me stand, 

Bid me "God speed!" and press my hand. 



92 



PREVISION 

Some day they'll shut me underneath a stone — 

I who am lover of the sun's gold light, 

I who at blackness tremble with affright, 

Arrayed in raiment of a sombre tone 

Must tryst with darkness in the grave alone 

And know the silence of that long, long night 

Without a yellow star or moon moth-white 

To bring me comfort when the weird winds moan: 

When as a child they tucked me safe in bed. 

Kissed me "Good-night" and snuffed the candle out, 

Fear stabbed my heart, till sleep so tenderly 

Calmed every fear and I was comforted. 

O sleep, that could my wildest terror rout, 

Will death be kind as thou hast been to me? 



93 



THE INN OF CONTENT 

There is an Inn most curious, 

And daily through its ancient door 
Great crowds pass in of young and old, 

And good and bad and rich and poor. 

Though none may number all its guests, 

There is abundant space for all; — 
Doorless and windowless the rooms 

Each three feet wide and six feet tall. 

Upon the hearth no fire burns, 

The floors are damp and smell of must; 
No servants there of man or maid, — 

Just silence . . . long, long sleep . . . and dust ! 

But of the guests who tarry there 

Through summer, autumn, winter, spring. 

Not one has ever made complaint 
To the dark Host of anything. 



04 



THE HOPE ETERNAL 

What does it matter if spring be late returning, 
Or grief and tears bide with us overlong? 
We know full soon the patient heart and yearning 
Shall find those things that wake the lips to song! 

What does it matter . . . the little night of slumber 
Within God's green and silent hostelry? 
With morn, each guest shall wake ! and who may number 
The million morns that make Eternity! 



95 



BEYOND THE LAND OF SLEEP AND DEATH 

Like play-worn, sleepy tots at candle-light, 
Who flinch from every shadow of the night 
Until they reach the peaceful Land of Nod; 
So we of twilight years when night grows deep. 
Shrink from kind death, who puts old age to sleep, 
To wake within the Poppy Fields of God! 



96 



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FINIS 



Fold thou his clay-cold hands on his chest, 
Light all the candles and spread the white sheet; 
New-born, a soul seeks the Country of Truth, 
Infinite, tearless and deathless and sweet: 
Soul, death but leads thee to springtime and youth ! 



97 




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